Tim Gregorio yells at me to shift a moment after the needle sweeps past 7,000 rpm. Gregorio is Singer Vehicle Design’s man in charge of client relations; I trust his judgment. And even though my size-14s take up 97 percent of the pedal box, I click off the best 2-3 shift of my life. Click. Click. Boom. Like cycling the pump action of a Remington 870. The throttle, the clutch, the shifter, the steering—every one of the controls feels fluid and pure, the epitome of mechanical sympathy.
It’s taken, oh, nine seconds behind the wheel, puttering down an access road and onto the highway, to know there’s something to the Singer myth: the weight of the controls, the feel of the materials, the inexplicable familiarity of it all. I’m driving a car literally made for someone else, yet everything about it feels purely for me.